


one more time (with feeling)

by ffa480



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Assumes RID Doesn't Happen Because Of Course, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Missing Scenes, Post-Canon, Redemption, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 18:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19892686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ffa480/pseuds/ffa480
Summary: “It’s only temporary. Once you prove you’re trustworthy, I’m sure everyone will calm down.” A smirk threatens at the edges of Bumblebee’s lip plates, as if he’s enjoying his own private joke. “For the time being, consider me your babysitter.”Knock Out narrows his optics. “I have no idea what thatmeans,” he hisses.From the case notes of Knock Out: former Decepticon, recovering douchebag.





	one more time (with feeling)

**Author's Note:**

> > _oh, everyone takes turns, now it's yours to play the part_   
>  _and they're sitting all around you, holding copies of your chart_   
>  _and the misery inside their eyes is synchronized and reflecting into yours_
> 
> the autobot knock out content hasbro was too scared to give us (with a heaping helping side of kobb because im predictable). title, lyrics, and general inspiration for the fic in whole courtesy of _[one more time with feeling](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lOkMqYpJdtM)_ by regina spektor.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Knock Out is a bad prisoner and an even worse Decepticon.

Knock Out comes online to darkness.

The ceiling is illuminated with a weak red glow from his rebooting optics, flickering as he tries to process the state he's in. He suspects it’s the throbbing pain in the back of his helm that stirred him, the throes of recharge unable to keep it at bay any longer. Groaning, he reaches up to gingerly rub the aching metal—but as he moves, something hot sears across his wrists, sending electric shocks across the joints. Confused, he looks down and struggles to focus his gaze in the darkness.

A band of energy is wound around his lower arms, locking his servos together as they rest on his lower abdomen. Knock Out furrows his optic ridges, alarm blooming in his spark chamber. He sends a half–sparked command to his right servo, trying to trigger the transformation to summon his buzz saw. The only response he's met with is a dull whir and an error message.

Inhibitor cuffs. Of course.

With a grunt, Knock Out rolls onto his side and pushes himself into a sitting position, wincing when the movement exasperates the thrums of pain to his processor. He'd been laying on the floor in the middle of an empty room—still aboard the _Nemesis_ , he realizes, as he notes the dim purple lights running between the paneling on the walls. He doesn’t recognize the room specifically; either it was cleared out to make room, or it’s an empty room on the lower decks he’d never bothered to venture into. A dozen unconscious drones are scattered across the floor around him, all similarly bound at the wrist. Knock Out grits his denta. He knows a prison when he sees one.

Knock Out tries to recall how, exactly, he found himself in this situation. Memory files trudge to the forefront of his processor one by one: completing the Synth–En formula with the Autobot medic; the Predacon’s rampage through the halls of the _Nemesis_ , only to be bookended by the Autobots’ own assault; the almighty Megatron’s demise; so kindly offering his allegiance to the Autobots on the bridge, and then...

_Ouch._ The low thrum of pain still present in his sensornet reminds him how well that went.

Before he has the chance to dwell on his indignation, Knock Out is pulled out of his reverie by the sound of approaching footsteps—several bots, by the sound of it—and the large metal door at the front of the room slides open with a whine.

The Autobot scout Bumblebee stands in the entrance, fists propped on his hips, posture steady as he observes the prisoners. Flanking him on both sides are the ex–Wreckers of their team—Bulkhead and Wheeljack, Knock Out's processor provides dimly. They have their arms crossed, large frames looming silently behind the smaller bot in front of them. A clear display of intimidation. One Knock Out has performed many times himself, with Breakdown over his shoulder.

Knock Out’s attention is drawn back to Bumblebee when he resets his vocalizer with a loud, pointed sound. “So,” he says. “The ship’s Energon supply. We need to know where it is, and you can choose to make the process easier for everyone, or—”

“West wing, third sector,” Knock Out answers immediately. He knows this game—he practically _invented_ it—and he also knows he’s not in a great position to be playing it. “Fifth door on the right. The combination for the keypad lock is _346843_. Reserves are low, but it should be enough to tide the crew over until another source is found.”

Bumblebee just stares back blankly with wide optics, stunned into silence for a long beat. Wheeljack and Bulkhead exchange a look, optic ridges raised. Clearly, none of them had expected the easy compliance.

“Oh,” Bumblebee says. Pauses. Resets his vocalizer again. “Okay. That’s, uh—good. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Knock Out replies with his best manufactured smile.

The awkward silence extends for a few moments longer, the Autobots in the hall looking as if they don’t quite know what to do with themselves. Eventually, perhaps just in a bid to escape the uncomfortable atmosphere, Bumblebee sets his shoulders firm again and turns to leave.

“Wait!” Knock Out’s grin vanishes as he scrambles to his feet, the movement made clumsy by his servos clasped in front of him, throwing off his balance. He cringes with the indignity of it. “That’s it? You’re just going to leave me here? I was serious about defecting, you know! I’m being helpful!”

“No offense, ‘Con,” Wheeljack drawls, “but it’s hardly going to be that easy. No one just _decides_ to switch sides overnight.” He fixes Knock Out with a look equal parts incredulous and unimpressed as he leans against the door frame, propping himself up on his arm. “Hard to forget a few millennia of war. Besides, who’s to say you’re not lying to us right now? What if that code of yours is rigged to blow the Energon supply and take the ship down with it?”

For a long moment, Knock Out can only gape back, dumbstruck. Wheeljack meets his gaze unflinching.

The rage welling in Knock Out’s spark chamber ignites him, and he lets his lip plates curl back to bare his denta in a snarl. “ _I’m_ on the ship, you oaf!” he crows. “If it goes down, so do I! You think I’m stupid enough to kill myself just to—what, get back at you? Protect _Decepticon secrets_? The war is over! Use your processor!”

Bulkhead cocks a optic ridge. “I mean, point,” he says to his companions with a shrug. “He doesn’t really seem like the self–sacrificing type, does he?”

Wheeljack scowls and lowers his tone to a stage whisper. “Come on, Bulk! Decepticons are crafty bastards—hell, it’s in the name, for Primus sake. Who knows what’s going on in that ugly little noggin of his?” he adds with a sneer.

And, of course, _that’s_ what tips Knock Out into full–on fury. “My _noggin_ is worth more than your entire sorry chassis, you overgrown block of—”

Wheeljack pushes off the wall, a predatory grin spreading across his scarred lip plating. “Let’s go, just give me an excuse, Decepticon—”

Knock Out revs his engine, straining against his bonds, reaching his servos out to wrap around the Wrecker’s neck. Wheeljack folds his palms together and cracks his knuckle joints.

Suddenly, Bumblebee speaks up, clear over the sound of engines kicking into high gear for combat: “What can you tell us about the rest of the Decepticons’ whereabouts?”

Unwilling to turn his shoulder to the looming warrior in front of him, Knock Out glances to Bumblebee out of the corner of his optic. The scout’s expression is pensive, one servo touching his chin absently as he appraises Knock Out with an uncomfortable intensity. His posture is calm, collected—a far cry from his companions, Bulkhead tense and shifting from ped to ped, and Wheeljack primed to strike. The sight makes no sense to Knock Out’s frazzled processor, and all he can manage is an eloquent, “Whuh?”

“A couple Decepticon officers are unaccounted for,” Bumblebee says, casual as can be. “Starscream and Shockwave, specifically, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. We have reason to believe they’ve fled to Cybertron’s surface in an escape pod. If you’d like to continue _being helpful_ , you can start with telling us any locations they could be hiding out at.”

Knock Out grits his denta and hisses through them, “I don’t _know_. I’ve been a bit busy being locked up in here, if you’ll remember.”

“Then what about past Decepticon strongholds?” Bumblebee insists. “Camps, laboratories? You have to have _some_ idea.”

And truthfully, Knock Out does; off the top of his head, he can recall several old establishments from before their forces abandoned the planet, a few of which he’d been stationed at personally. Less clearly, he remembers mention of a shortlist containing Shockwave’s prior laboratories that he’d brought with him upon joining the crew of the _Nemesis_ , dotted across the planet’s surface as he moved from project to project—as if Knock Out had been given clearance anywhere near high enough to know their exact coordinates.

Not that the Autobots need to know that. As it stands, this is his one bargaining chip, and he’s not going to throw it away for nothing.

Instead, he says, “What’s in it for me?”

Across the room, Bulkhead rolls his optics with a heavy sigh, and Wheeljack gives a smug snort. Bumblebee’s expression darkens into what could almost be called a pout. “If you really do want to defect, I don’t think this will help your case at all,” he warns.

“Oh, my mistake. I thought I was too busy being a— _crafty bastard_ , was it?” Knock Out replies with a pointed glower in Wheeljack’s direction. The white bot doesn’t seem to mind it. “Is this how you treat all your new recruits? No wonder Autobot numbers are so dismally low. Seems counterproductive, if you ask me.”

“Good thing no one’s asking you,” Bulkhead grumbles.

Knock Out rounds on him with a glare. “I was under the impression that this was an interrogation! You’re doing nothing _but_ asking me! Are all of you as awful at this as you three?”

“Stop stalling and come out with it,” Wheeljack snaps. He rests one servo on the grip of one of his swords less–than–subtly. “You know where they are or not?”

Knock Out huffs, drawing close in on himself. It’s clear that this is a losing battle. “I can’t seem to remember,” he replies airily. “Must’ve been _knocked out_ of me. How unfortunate.”

The frustration that emanates from the Autobots becomes like a physical thing, the tension in the air nearly thick enough to slice. Bumblebee allows himself a little sigh. “This isn’t going anywhere,” the scout says, bringing up one servo to massage at his temple. “We need to get back to the bridge. This can keep until after the ceremony.”

After a moment of hesitation, Wheeljack shakes his head in irritation, but retreats back through the entrance all the same. Bulkhead moves to follow him down the hall, his weighty footsteps reverberating throughout the ship’s hull. That leaves Bumblebee standing solitary in the door frame, giving Knock Out one last long stare.

Knock Out would like to say that he doesn’t wither beneath the weight of Bumblebee’s optics, but, well—circumstances. “Have fun on your moose chase,” he says.

“It’s _goose_ chase,” Bumblebee replies. “Have fun in your cell.”

With that, the scout palms the controls as he turns to leave, letting the heavy doors slide closed to douse the room in darkness once more.

  
  
  


The minutes and hours start to blend together, the dark walls of the secluded cell allowing no sense of time to pass through the hull of the ship. Knock Out checks his chronometer over and over, but the more time that passes, the more he’s convinced that the sucker–punch on the bridge had knocked him out of alignment in more ways than one; the units of time in the readout seem disjointed, too long or too short compared to reference, out of sync with the universe around him. Were it not for the Vehicons congregating in the corners, Knock Out would have felt completely isolated from the rest of the universe.

And oh, how boring it is.

Knock Out tries, but nothing he does can keep his mind off the aches in his helm and his servos, the cuffs chafing painfully against the plating of his wrist. There’s an incessant itch in his wheel wells, begging for his tires to tear across an open road, for his engine to kick into high gear and run until it burns. Between his imprisonment now and his intensive work in Shockwave’s lab before the world tipped on his head, he hasn’t had the chance to get out and work the stress out of his struts the old–fashioned way, and his frame is beginning to beg for it. Needless to say, it does nothing to quell the claustrophobia beginning to claw at him from the darker corners of the makeshift cell.

On top of that, he’s excruciatingly aware of the bits of dirt and grime gathering in his grille and seams; no matter how much he picks off of him, there are always the places his cuffed servos can’t reach, and those bother him the most. His finish has long since degraded from its usual luster, nearly completely scraped away in areas of particular friction—and those are just the areas that he can _see_. No surface in their little cell is reflective enough to act as a mirror, try as he might, and the not–knowing is the most embarrassing part.

There aren’t many distractions to be had. Knock Out tries to converse with the Vehicons, but even collectively, they really aren’t the sharpest tools in the shed. He can’t fathom how Breakdown could find them so engaging, as personable as his late partner was. It doesn’t help that Knock Out has a bit of a reputation, either, as the _Nemesis_ ’s resident dubiously–certified–surgeon–slash–torture–aficionado. The wary looks suited him just fine when he wasn’t relying on the bots around him for his only source of entertainment. Knock Out briefly considers tearing one of them apart, just so he’d have something to put back together. The intention must’ve been telegraphed clearly in his stormy expression, because the drones quickly start giving him as much space as possible in their confines.

As a last resort—and, admittedly, a petty outlet for his frustration towards his Autobot captors—Knock Out takes to kicking at one of the thick walls, each strike of his ped echoing through the thick hull with rumbling _thunk_ s. He’s been stationed on the ship long enough to know that there’s nothing he could physically do to weaken the integrity of the wall on his own, so it’s less of an escape attempt and more of a fruitless annoyance.

Apparently, the Autobots can’t bring themselves to that same logical conclusion.

Knock Out only distantly registers the rumble of an engine speeding down the hall and nearly jumps out of his plating as the door swings open. He whirls around to find Bumblebee standing in the entryway, frame tense and optics blown wide with alarm. The scout’s gaze immediately zeroes in on Knock Out, tucked away on the far side of the wall. “What are you doing?” he demands through the quiet whir of his vents, and Knock Out realizes that he must’ve run the whole way here to be that wound up.

“What? Is being annoying against the Autobot code now, too?” Knock Out responds defensively, giving the wall another punctuated kick.

Bumblebee watches the movement with rapt attention, frame twitching, as if he were about to launch himself into the cell to physically stop Knock Out. He takes a moment to process and seems to realize, belatedly, that the prisoners aren’t attempting some kind of latchkey escape, and shrinks back into the hallway. Knock Out can practically feel the embarrassment rolling off the short bot, and a wave of vicious smugness flows through him. Serves him right.

Being caught with egg on his face—another bizarre Earth term Knock Out had picked up on one of his escapades—doesn’t seem to mesh well with the disaffected prison guard facade the Autobots are trying to build, and Knock Out watches as Bumblebee mentally scrambles to appear as if he hadn’t rushed down to the lower decks in a panic and instead came with purpose, in an attempt to save face. He awkwardly settles into a stilted pose with arms crossed across his chest, and Knock Out, deprived of stimulation and deliriously vindictive, finds it absolutely hilarious.

“If you’re bored enough to be attacking your own cell, perhaps you’ll feel a bit more forthcoming with information this time around,” Bumblebee says, voice a touch too low to come off as completely casual.

Knock Out doesn’t feel the least bit intimidated by the display, especially considering that the scout had apparently rushed down alone. A clear indication of inexperience in dealing with prisoners of war. With a smirk, he takes his time in sauntering across the room, stopping just out of easy reach. “I could be persuaded,” he says. “Provided the right incentive.”

“If you tell us what you know, then we won’t let you rust in here for the rest of the century. How’s that for incentive?”

“Creative,” Knock Out replies dryly. “A shuttle would be a nice start—plus my personal maintenance products you’ve no doubt confiscated, if you please.”

Bumblebee snorts and opens his mouth to respond, but suddenly stops up short, a look of confusion flashing across his expression before he can mask it. “A shuttle? What would you even need that for?”

“Leaving, obviously. I hardly think you’d let me loose on Earth unsupervised, so I might as well take what I can get. I heard Velocitron is lovely this time of year.”

This time, Bumblebee doesn’t even try to mask his befuddlement; his mouth slips down into a perplexed frown, head tilting ever so slightly. “Wait—you don’t want to go back to _Cybertron_? I thought that was the whole thing you Decepticons wanted, to conquer it now that it’s habitable again. That’s what you rebuilt the Lock for.”

Knock Out scoffs. “ _Habitable_ is a long ways off from _civilized_ ,” he mutters, averting his gaze to a shadowy corner. He internally cringes at the thought of having to navigate the barren wastes of their homeworld for any substantial length of time, let alone trying to live on it on his own. Perhaps in a few years, once infrastructure and actually usable roads have been constructed, but he has no desire to be a part of that process. He and manual labor didn’t mesh.

Earth, however... Despite its less–than–savory inhabitants, Knock Out has found himself with a peculiar fondness for the little rock. Its regions were numerous and unique, each sporting its own kind of charm. While humankind was still light–years behind Cybertronians in terms of technologies, its cities were still lively, never lacking in new human activities to experience. On Earth, Knock Out felt unhindered; individual humans could do nothing against his sheer size and might comparatively, and so long as he kept his head low enough to go undetected by its larger governments, there was nothing their law enforcement could do to make him cow to their arbitrary laws. If he was smart, he could do whatever he wanted.

So unlike Cybertron. No doubt that whatever governing power cropped up in this new era of the planet’s history, it would be just as stifling as the ones that came before it. Frankly, Knock Out is done with it. Done with taking orders, done with complying, done with following someone else’s rules. He wants to indulge and indulge freely, and now that Megatron is no longer around to keep him on a tight leash, he has the opportunity to do just that.

Well. If he wasn’t currently locked away in his own ship, maybe.

A heavy silence stretches out between them, and Knock Out glances up to make sure the Autobot hadn’t wandered off under his notice. Instead, he’s surprised to find Bumblebee is staring at him intensely, expression drawn tight in concentration. Knock Out can practically hear the gears turning in the little guy’s head—probably trying to figure out how to work around losing his biggest bargaining chip, if he were to guess. Despite still being the one in cuffs and confines, Knock Out feels like he’s the one coming out on top in this situation.

Eventually, Bumbleebee slowly says, “We can’t let you go back to Earth.”

“Obviously,” Knock Out snaps. “I’m the one willing to compromise here. Let’s start with a buffing, shall we?”

With a huff, Bumblebee rolls his optics. “I didn’t come here to cut you a deal, Knock Out. You’re in no better position to make demands than you were twelve hours ago.”

Knock Out smirks. “And yet, here you are.”

“Here I am,” Bumblebee agrees begrudgingly. He sighs heavily and bows his helm, massaging the cabling of his neck. He takes a moment to steel himself, then continues, “Fine. Spill the proverbial beans and we can discuss your touch–up. Where are Starscream and Shockwave?”

And there it is: Knock Out’s ticket to freedom. He straightens his posture, drawing himself to his full height, and cheerily reveals, “I don’t know.”

Bumblebee’s head snaps back up so fast that his frame creaks, mouth agape. “What do you mean you _don’t know_?” he demands.

“It’s not like they left me a roadmap,” Knock Out argues. “It’s likely they eloped to one of Shockwave’s labs, but I was never privy to the locations of his various escapades while we were away. They could be anywhere, and even if I did know where they were heading when they left, Shockwave’s gotten good enough at covering his tracks that they’re long gone. Hence, I don’t know! Now, about that buff—”

“I’m not going to—” Bumblebee cuts off as he staggers back, out of the cell and deeper into the hallway. He looks thoroughly scandalized, his back–mounted door kibble shivering in the air ever so slightly. “You said you knew something! You lied to me—to us!” he accuses.

“I didn’t lie! You asked me to share what I know, and this is it! It’s your fault for assuming, really,” Knock Out says. “And I believe I was promised a proper wash in exchange?”

Bumblebee darkens like a storm cloud, drawing in on himself and clenching his servos tight at his sides. “I—I am _not_ going to let you have that.”

Knock Out stiffens, his shoulder plating beginning to flare higher. “Oh, and _I’m_ the liar?” he hisses indignantly, studiously ignoring how much he sounds like one of the Autobot’s irritating human companions, petulant and immature.

“You didn’t give us anything!” Bumblebee shoots back, frustration leaking like oil off of every word. “I’m not going to reward you for nothing!”

The energy cuffs around Knock Out’s wrists sizzle audibly as his servos tremble with a contained rage, and he wishes desperately that the Autobot was close enough for him to wring his heinous little neck. “But it’s fine to _punish_ me for nothing? I haven’t had a proper wash since you threw me in here! I’ve almost no gloss left! This is downright inhumane!”

“So, what, having a scuffed finish is comparable to torture now? You’re just—so—” Bumblebee lifts his servos, fingers twitching in some kind of barely–conscious gesture. Perhaps thinking along the same lines as Knock Out. So much for that famed _Autobot compassion_. “You are _unbearable_! I should’ve known you would be no help—once a Decepticon, always a Decepticon.”

“Is _that_ how we’re playing this?” Knock Out yells as he stomps back up to level with Bumblebee who, to his credit, doesn’t shrink away from his superior height. “Typical Autobot. You never intended to show us any mercy, did you? Sounds like a move straight out of the _Decepticon_ playbook, if you ask me. Is that why you’re down here playing leader instead of your holier–than–thou farce of a Prime?”

From where he’s standing now, Knock Out is close enough to see the flash of Bumblebee’s optics in response, to see every line in his frame go taut. For a gut–wrenching second, Knock Out thinks he might’ve overestimated the scout’s moral standards for attacking a defenseless prisoner—but before he can jump back out of striking distance, Bumblebee reels himself back in, steadying himself with a step back of his own.

Now that there’s a quiet moment, the rest of the cell’s inhabitants come back into Knock Out’s awareness; his proximity sensors inform him that the Vehicons are crowded around at the very edges of the room, gone still as they anxiously watch the faux–interrogation unfold in front of them. Bumblebee’s gaze sweeps across the room, taking notice of them as well, and gives a barely perceptible wince before taking another few steps backward, moving fully into the dim light of the corridor.

“Enough,” he says, voice considerably quieter. “I don’t have time to play your games. If you don’t want to cooperate, so be it. I have better things to do.”

Without giving Knock Out a chance to respond, Bumblebee swiftly moves towards the door control and slams his fist into it. The thick doors slide closed and the locks engage with a _click_ that resounds through the suddenly very quiet room—quiet enough, in fact, that Knock Out can hear Bumblebee’s growl of frustration through the door as his footsteps retreat down the hall.

Less interested in being composed, Knock Out has no qualms with very loudly voicing his irritation: he resorts to roaring wordlessly into the darkness of his cell, raking his servos down his faceplate. As he returns to assaulting the wall with renewed vigor, he concedes that at the very least, now he knows how to get the scout’s attention.

  
  
  


Knock Out does not see another Autobot from that point on. Apparently, the last confrontation was the last straw for the crew, as they begin utilizing the ship’s on–board communications system in lieu of physical presence. Knock Out half–heartedly tries to convince himself that it’s because they’re scared of him, but he knows the reality is more disappointing—that they’re probably too busy with the care and keeping of Revived Cybertron to bother a trip down to the lower decks. The video calls are few and far between, and irritatingly, Bumblebee has decided that the best way to get what he wants is to tease, try to rile Knock Out up enough that he’d spill any information he has without even meaning to.

The fact that it _works_ is the embarrassing thing.

The isolation doesn’t help any, certainly. Knock Out fears he’s going stir–crazy, the confinement eating away at him more and more as the hours slip by, and he’s starting to get desperate. Once he concedes to knowing of Darkmount’s database, and the complete list of Shockwave’s laboratories stored within, the radio silence resumes, leaving him and his cohorts in the silence of their cell.

Judging by the lack of any meaningful happenings afterwards, Knock Out assumes his lead had ended up not leading anywhere. He hadn’t been hopeful to begin with—he well knows that even Starscream isn’t stupid enough to hang around one of the Decepticon’s most notorious bases during the war—but at this point, Knock Out is willing to try every idea at his disposal. If the Autobots _had_ found anything of note, apparently they didn’t have need for Knock Out’s assistance anymore and were quite content to leave him in the dark. And they certainly hadn’t found _anybody_ of note, either, or else they’d be locked up as well.

For a moment, Knock Out had entertained the idea of a daring rescue; some grand operation by the remaining Decepticon forces to storm the _Nemesis_ , to break out their one and only chief medical officer and reclaim their vessel by force. But once he feels the ship around him pull into motion, that one shred of hope crumbles to dust, and he begins to fear that he’s never going to see solid ground again.

The worst part about it is that it _hurts_ , being left behind without even an attempt at rescue. Not so much the betrayal of it—Primus knows that loyalty isn’t one of Knock Out’s most prominent qualities either—but moreso just the fact that it _does_. Knock Out is perfectly aware that, to put it in Shockwave’s terms, it simply isn’t logical to undertake that much risk for such a non–essential asset like himself. That it isn’t logical to take such a risk, period, when the war has already been lost.

Knock Out is under no illusions. He knew what the Decepticons were like when he joined up, what they continued to be like throughout his service, and he knows that nothing has changed now. Anyone who would have come back for him is long gone, their bodies rusting in the _Nemesis’s_ cold storage or left light–years away on alien planets.

If pressed, Knock Out knows he’d never stick his neck out for someone else like that, either. As hypocritical of him as it is to hope, he would’ve thought his expertise as Megatron’s personal medic would’ve made him a priority, if not a necessity. Expecting others to treat you with higher esteem than you treat them, regardless of station, just isn’t practical. There’s no one coming to rescue him.

Which is why Knock Out is nearly shocked out of his plating when the room’s door slides open to reveal Starscream, casual as can be.

  
  
  


“What’s happening?” Knock Out demands as he follows Starscream down a long, empty hallway, the Vehicons following along in their wake. “Let me guess. I’ve been wasting away in an Autobot cell and you’ve been busy amassing an army?”

“It’s not mine,” Starscream replies curtly, a sharp edge of anxiety in his voice. “Not anymore. It would appear that our lord Megatron has gotten up to his old tricks since his absence.”

Knock Out falters a step. “He’s here? _Alive_?”

“Presumably. He claims to have been overtaken by the spirit of Unicron incarnate.”

“Huh,” Knock Out replies flatly. He turns the proclamation over in his mind, then decides it’s probably wiser to not press the point. “I assume you have a rendezvous arranged with our... revitalized master?”

“We will not be joining the fray. We’re leaving.”

“Leaving? Are you insane? If Megatron catches up to us—”

Starscream cuts him off with a harsh, hysteric chuckle. “ _Unicron_ seems more interested in the total destruction of the planet than subjugating its subjects. I don’t believe he’ll even notice our absence.”

“What about Shockwave, then?”

“We’ll pick him up on the way. If he lives.”

A stretch of concentrated silence blankets the squad as they make their way through the corridors of the _Nemesis_. After years of serving on the vessel, taking each turn feels like second nature; Knock Out knows the layout of the ship like his own specs, familiar yet never comforting, always with a twinge of dread. After all is said and done, he’d be more than happy to never board the damned thing again if he can help it.

“Thank you,” Knock Out says, stilted.

Starscream casts a quick glance back over his shoulder—it lasts barely a second before his gaze is re-affixed on the hallway before them. “What for?”

“Coming back. For me.”

Knock Out doesn’t miss the flutter of Starscream’s wing, betraying his surprise even as he keeps his gaze locked forward. “Well,” he says, awkwardly. “It’s not good sense to leave able troops in the hands of the enemy.”

“Clearly,” Knock Out replies.

In no time at all, their little brigade rounds the final corner to the vault, leaving the awkward conversation in the dust. Starscream wastes no time in punching in the override code for the lock—something the Autobots had no time to change, it seems—and disappears into the dark room. Knock Out follows him in, trailing behind slowly to rove the racks of weaponry.

Across the room, Starscream makes a low noise of interest. Knock Out leans to peer around the span of his wing, finding him cradling the Immobilizer in his claws. “Now, _this_ could prove to be interesting,” the seeker murmurs.

Knock Out makes a mental note to stay _behind_ Starscream in the upcoming fight.

Keeping the relic firmly in his spindly grip, Starscream spins on his heel to rejoin the group in the hallway. He gestures across the small squad of drones with a commanding sweep of his arm, demanding no less than their full attention. “We shouldn’t dally around. The Autobots will no doubt be aware of our presence soon enough, and the element of surprise is an advantage we shouldn’t squander. Keep your blasters down until we take the bridge, and at least _try_ to not lumber into anything—”

He’s stopped short by the distant rumble of an engine, rapidly gaining on their position. The Vehicons scan the halls anxiously, their blasters humming as they power up—previous order immediately forgotten, which is less surprising and more irritating—as they prepare to face their unknown assailant.

Smokescreen takes the corner at a dangerous speed and unfurls into root mode, pedes skidding across the ship’s floor in a wave of sparks. Once he lays eyes upon the gang of Decepticons before him, he freezes—when his momentum continues to carry him forward, he backpedals wildly in a way that’s very nearly comical. “Starscream!” he gasps as he regains his balance. ”Who let you in?”

“I have my ways,” Starscream purrs, the Immobilizer humming to life in his hands. “I know this ship like the plating of my own servo, and I would much like to have it back.”

As the seeker takes aim, Smokescreen slaps at the Phase Shifter clamped ever–presently around his wrist and rolls through the wall at his left, narrowly avoiding the hit and disappearing into the ship’s hull.

The drones twist around this way and that, trying to anticipate the Autobot’s next move, stances going wide. Knock Out attemps to position himself closer to the opposite side of the hall, but it turns out to be the wrong move; the next moment, Smokescreen appears at his side and crashes into him, sending them both tumbling across the hall floor and through the wall of a dark storage room.

Knock Out sprawls on the floor, processor spinning wildly like it’s been replaced with a centrifuge. He groans, twisting onto his side to push himself back upright, fighting through the nausea. Several paces away, Smokescreen is rolling around on the floor as well, trying to get his bearings in the darkness.

The soft Autobot–blue glow of Smokescreen’s optics finally narrows in on Knock Out’s prone form, and in the next instant the warrior is twisting to his pedes, kicking his frame up off the floor in an impressive show of agility. Knock Out scrambles to get himself upright just in time to dodge the leg thrust out to force him back down, but in the process, he ends up with his back pressed flush against the wall. Nowhere to run.

It’s a familiar scenario—one that Knock Out has no intention of being on the losing end of again.

As Smokescreen charges for another tackle, Knock Out doesn’t even try to dodge; he leans his shoulder into the hit and grabs onto the Autobot’s arm as the impact sends them both careening through the wall. They begin to roll out the other side, and Knock Out swipes for the Phase Shifter, prying it from Smokescreen’s wrist. 

Knock Out’s back hits the deck, and he reflexively winces in preparation for the weight of the rookie’s frame to come crashing down right down after him... which never comes. He peeks open one optic and gazes up.

Lodged in the thick plating of the bulkhead, Smokescreen wriggles as much as his confines allow, which, hilariously, is not at all. A frustrated groan warbles from his vocalizer. Knock Out allows himself a self–satisfied chuckle as he rises to his pedes, then reaches out to tap the point of one servo on the center of Smokescreen’s face plate. The soft dermal metal under his touch scrunches up in a ridiculous, twisted expression.

“Round two to me,” Knock Out announces smugly.

Somewhere over Knock Out’s shoulder, Starscream lets out a pointed cough. “If you’re done,” he hisses as Knock Out turns to face him, finding himself pinned with one of the seeker’s trademark withering looks, “time is of the essence. Disable his comm–link and get a move on.”

Starscream leads their little brigade down the hall, and Knock Out turns his attention back to their captive Autobot. Smokescreen is glowering quite fiercely, his servos caught between curling into fists and reaching out like claws. “ _Knew_ it was a mistake to keep you on board so long,” he mutters, trying very hard to sound threatening instead of sulking.

Knock Out clicks his tongue. He reaches the pointed tips of his digits into the wiring at the right side of Smokescreen’s helm, tucked under the plating, and probes the cables for the comm connector. “Old habits,” he says absently.

The cord pops out of the jack without much resistance, and Knock Out leaves it to dangle free as he turns to follow his companions, the sounds of Smokescreen struggling in vain fading as he moves further down the hallway.

From there, it’s a simple thing to ambush the Autobots gathered on the bridge. For whatever reason, they’ve left only a skeleton crew to man the vessel, half of their already tawdry forces nowhere to be seen—their Prime most noticeably absent. When the Vehicons raise their weapons, the Autobots wisely decide to not put up a fight, for as one–sided as it would be. That doesn’t make it any less a satisfying upheaval, however.

Bumblebee’s optics cycle wide as Cybertron’s moons when he notices Knock Out standing proud in the pack, and vindication rushes viciously through Knock Out’s lines at the sight.

Knock Out has to admit, it feels _nice_ to have the upper hand again. After the parade of failures the past few days proved to have been, facing down the Autobots with their best weapons turned against them brings a certain kind of gratification blooming out from Knock Out’s spark. This is what he’d been missing; being an equal player, a necessity to an operation. Proof to everyone that he’s truly as indispensable as he’s known himself to be. It feels, finally, satisfying. It feels _right_. It feels—

“ _Shut up_ , you!” Starscream snaps, bristling with irritation.

On instinct, Knock Out flinches back, muscle memory warning him to protect against a blow its been trained to expect. Starscream turns away with talons flexing on the Immobilizer’s shaft, instead ignoring him completely. Not even deigning to use his designation, like he’s nothing more than a common drone—faceless, replaceable.

Just another _able troop_.

Once the bullets start flying, the rapid pace of his fuel pump jolts Knock Out from his reverie and he wastes no time in hitting the deck. He peeks up between his servos just in time to watch as Bumblebee launches himself at Starscream, trying his hardest to wrestle the fake Immobilizer from the Seeker's grasp. All around them, the sounds of the dogfight echo off the walls of the bridge, but Knock Out is hyper–focused on the scuffle in front of him, like the rest of the Autobots and Decepticons aren’t even there: just Starscream, just Bumblebee, just the weapon between them.

Knock Out can’t deny the rage that flows through his systems like a virus at the sight of them both. He feels strung out, every nerve like a live wire crackling against his circuitry, and he’s nearly to point of crashing. Autobot, Decepticon—the two are opposite ends of an equally awful spectrum, one that Knock Out, in the span of forty–eight hours, has been kicked back and forth across like a live grenade, mutually denied. It’s as if the turmoil of the past few days has been a physical whiplash. His head still aches.

Absently, he digs his fingers into the clasp of the Phase Shifter and his claws carve out shallow gouges in the metal. It clicks on beneath his servo, the lights adorning the sides flaring to life, as he rises to his pedes. A plan half–formed swirls inside his processor: a final decision.

Bumblebee’s gaze catches his over Starscream’s shoulder, optics flicking between Knock Out’s face and the Phase Shifter. Realization blooms across the Autobot’s features, and his grip on the not–Immobilizer slackens by the tiniest of margins. It’s something like permission—the first sign of encouragement Knock Out’s seen today, no matter how imperative. He nods in response.

He picks his side.


End file.
